toward home, trailing Matthew by a few paces.
He did not like to walk with me, especially when
he had candy. It was nearly pointless to ask him
to share, but I always begged anyway. This time
was no different. All the way to the apartment, I
hobbled behind him, begging for some of his
candy. His laugh was his refusal, as he washed
down his candy with the cold Malta.
When we entered the apartment, I placed the TV
Guide on the kitchen table, and with a cold hand
pulled Bobby’s change from my pocket. Matthew
sat on the couch, announcing our arrival that had
gone unnoticed. Bobby hugged Matthew to him
with a wicked grin. I stood silently still in the
kitchen, waiting for permission to move.
“Bring me my TV Guide and my change.”
Bobby shouted at the television.
I brought him what he asked for and handed it to
him from as far away as I could stand. He smiled
as he flipped through the TV Guide, the change
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nestled in his grip. Closing the magazine, he
opened his palms and counted the coins. His
fingers tightened around the money.
“Where’s the rest? What else did you buy?” He
growled, staring at his fist.
“I got the TV Guide and took the change the guy
gave me and put it in my pocket. I didn’t buy
anything. You can ask Matthew.” I pleaded.
“I aint askin’ him. I’m askin’ YOU. What else did
you buy? A TV Guide cost 25 cents. I only got 60
some-odd cents here. So, what else did you buy?”
His slurred voice wavered as he emphasized his
words.
His rise from the couch was slow and telegraphed
but escape was impossible. The impending
beating threw me across the living room, but I
had no other answer to the question he repeated
as he tossed me around the room. When his
patience ran out, he grabbed his coat and
dragged me from the apartment and down to the
store where I’d bought the magazine.
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Bobby tossed me at the counter and I knocked
my head into a large jar of loose pickles. The
clerk looked across the counter in shock. Bobby
pulled my hair and showed my face to the man
and began his tirade.
“Wha’ did little bastard buy when he was in here
a minute ago?” Bobby screamed.
“Relax man. Leave the kid alone. Yeah, he was in
here. He bought a TV Guide and left with some
other kid. A bigger, blonde headed kid. The
blonde kid bought a bunch a candy.” The clerk
said nervously.
“Then where’s the rest of my change,” Bobby
said, opening up his hand to reveal the coins I
had given him.
“Hey man, relax. TV Guide’s 35 cents. The kid
gave me a dollar. That’s the right change.” The
man at the register looked around to the other
customers in the line and pulled a TV Guide
from the small rack on the countertop, pointing
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out the price on the cover. Bobby’s anger turned
to irritation.
“Next time I wanna receipt. Got me walkin’ all
day-- way down here in the gotdamn cold. Get
the hell outta here,” he demanded and swung me
by the hair toward the doorway. I heard someone
yell at Bobby, something about calling the police.
Holding onto the door, ready to leave, I watched
Bobby turn and swing wildly at an older man. His
stupor did not allow him to connect and the older
man scolded Bobby and told him to leave. Bobby
walked to the door and pushed me outside back
into the cold. As we walked hurriedly through the
cold, he warned me of the beating I had waiting
for me when we got home.
Later that night, a loud banging on the door and
the word “Police” shook the apartment alive.
Frantically, Debbie burst into our room and told
Matthew and me to sit on the couch. She
coached us to repeat the usual story of our regular
fights and sibling rivalry to explain my cuts and
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bruises. Meanwhile, Bobby moved in silence,
transferring all of the drugs into their bedroom.
After the last trip, he sat on the couch with the
rest of us. We all then pretended to watch
television.
From the couch I heard the pounding more
clearly, followed by a loud commanding voice:
“Open up, Bridgeport Police.”
With the apartment acceptably presentable,
Debbie opened the door as far as the chain would
allow. She spoke with the officers in a low voice,
then closed the door and undid the chain to
reopen the door. Four officers entered the
apartment in single file. Bobby stood up in a
defensive stance. The police were not a familiar
presence in the Village but had been to our
apartment on several occasions.
The officers questioned Bobby about the incident
at the store. From the couch, I heard that the
clerk had called the police about a disturbance
and possible child abuse. An officer stooped in
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front of Matthew and me while the others stood
surrounding Bobby and Debbie in the kitchen.
“Did he hurt you in the store?” the officer asked
me pointing to Bobby.
“No,” I answered softly.
“Did he hurt you after you left the store?” he
asked.
“No.” Bobby had taught me after our first
interaction with the police to only answer the
question I was asked, and to never give more
information than necessary.
“Does he ever hurt you?” The officer continued.
“No.” I answered.
“Does he ever hurt you?” The officer asked
Matthew who was sitting beside me.
“No,” he said with a laugh.
Surprised by his lack of concern, the officer asked,
“What’s so funny about that?”
“No one hurts
me
. We fight all the time, and I
win. That’s all we do is fight.” Matthew’s
excitement was nearly uncontainable.
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“Is that true? Do you two fight much?” The
officer asked.
I turned to Matthew with disdain, “Yes, but I
beat
him
one time.”
“Just one time,” Matthew blurted in annoyance.
“Did he,” pointing to Matthew, “do
this
” pointing
back to my face, “to you?” The officer asked.
“Yes,” I replied as Matthew gave a short laugh.
The officer stood up and walked to the kitchen to
confer with the other officers. There was a
hushed discussion, and the officers walked to the
door. The officer that had spoken with Matthew
and I turned and called to Matthew, “Hey, son,
be nicer to your little brother. He’s your brother.
You need to be protecting him, not hurting him.”
Debbie opened the door and let the officers out.
Debbie went into the kitchen and waited by the
edge of the window. “They’re gone,” she said
finally.
“Good job boys. Damn good job. Dumb
mufuckas think they gon’ come up in ‘ere and say
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some shit to me? Shit!” Bobby said triumphantly
as he paced in front of the door. The officers’ visit
had sobered him up, and his speech was clear and
condescending. “Baby, get my shit and cook us
up,” he ordered. Debbie moved quickly toward
the bedroom.
“You two go to yo room and play,” he instructed,
waving a burning cigarette at us. We got up
quickly. Bobby called Matthew over to him. I
walked into the hall and waited closest to the
edge, where I was out of sight of Bobby and
Matthew.
“You did a great job, son. I’m proud of you. Stay
out here with us. You can watch TV with us.” He
said cheerfully. I moved on down the hall to the
bedroom.
Several weeks later, the police returned,
accompanied by a social worker I had seen
before. They interviewed Debbie in the kitchen.
Debbie held Ruby in her arms to give the
appearance of being a loving mother. The police
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walked through the apartment, inspecting each
room in turn from Ruby’s small, toy-filled room
to the bathroom. Matthew and I were
interviewed separately in our bedroom by the
social worker with a police officer standing guard.
She asked about the incident at the store, and I
repeated the story of the officers’ visit later that
same night. She asked about fighting with
Matthew and if anyone else ever hurt me. I told
her that the boys in the neighborhood often beat
me up and that Matthew and me fought all the
time: all things I had been coached to say. The
visitors left before Bobby came home, but when
he did arrive, Debbie told him what had
transpired. He was angry until he spoke with
Matthew and me and heard our versions of what
had happened and what we had said. He
dismissed me without comment but congratulated
Matthew and spoke of the pride he had for his
son.
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It was March 20, 1979 when the police returned,
this time accompanied by more social workers.
Bobby and Debbie were both home. The social
worker who had interviewed us earlier explained
that they were temporarily taking Matthew out of
the house, as it had been determined that I was
unsafe with Matthew in the home. Upon hearing
their words, I collapsed into tears and frustration.
My grief was irrepressible. I begged them not to
take Matthew, but they all assured me it was for
only a little while. They promised I would be
back together with my brother in no time at all.
My crying and pleas got louder and more
incomprehensible. I couldn’t explain that what I
really wanted was to be taken away myself
without having to explain why. The social
workers and the police officers all tried to calm
me, but there was no consolation for the betrayal
I felt. The police, the social workers, and the
teachers at school: I was sure they all knew what
was happening, but they left me and took the
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favored son away. I was more frightened than I
had ever been when the door finally closed and
Matthew was gone.
I ran to my room and closed the door. Collapsing
on my bed, I tried to stifle my tears, but they only
came harder. Debbie entered my room and sat
on the bed, rubbing my back. Her voice was
shaky, and her words were incongruous with her
quivering body. She tried to assure me, like the
police and the social workers, that everything was
going to be all right. The words only intensified
my fear, as I thought about being home alone
with Bobby.
The torment I feared never came. With Matthew
gone, it became apparent that there was no one
to blame for my disturbingly battered
appearance. The daily beatings ended
immediately. Bobby’s kindness that was so
frequently showered upon Matthew now
transferred to me. He brought me with him
everywhere he went, in and out of the Village.
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One night we sang “Y.M.C.A.” by the Village
People over and over at the top of our voices as
we drove a stolen van to a drug buy. He sat me
on his lap and let me “steer” the giant vehicle on
the way to buy. Sitting in the van waiting for him
to return, I listened to the radio, drank Yoo-hoo,
and ate pizza.
Bobby bought me candy and Yoo-hoo nearly
each day. I was allowed to play outside as spring
approached and the weather became warmer.
Being seen with Bobby had brought a certain
level of protection among the neighborhood
children. I could walk and play outside without
fear. I made friends with several of the other kids
and was allowed to visit them in their apartments.
My body healed, and my appearance became less
unsettling.
Debbie also went unharmed while Matthew was
gone. Bobby’s rage was all but gone, and because
she too escaped the beatings, she was able to turn
more tricks outside the apartment. Bobby and I
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sat on the couch and watched television, smoking
pot and drinking beer, while Debbie worked her
nights away. Debbie was more attentive to the
cleanliness of the apartment, and the refrigerator
always had food. The calm of the apartment was
palpable.
We laughed and had a good time around the
apartment. Each day I ate hot meals at the table
with Debbie, Bobby, and Ruby in her high chair.
Debbie bought an ear-piercing gun for Ruby’s
first birthday, and I was allowed to sit with
Debbie and her “friends” as they tried to figure
out how to use it. I was allowed to play with and
even feed Ruby for the first time while Matthew
was away. Since she had been born almost a year
earlier, I had been kept away from her, as I was
so despised by Bobby. He didn’t want “Debbie’s
bastard kid” near his own child, though Debbie
was the mother of both of us.
Four weeks went by, and each week was better
than the last. We were like a real family whenever
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the social workers came by. I was noticeably
happier and more relaxed than ever. Each time
the social worker got up to go, she would